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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30036765">Truth by Omission</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell'>Hopetohell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mission: Impossible (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, D/s tones, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Reader-Insert, Smut, Spanking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:53:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,024</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30036765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just supposed to be a lighthearted “Walker doms his boss” romp. And then it wasn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>August Walker/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Truth by Omission</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The shape of the thing is its negative image; all of this is what’s burned into your lids when you blink, when you close your eyes and listen to him moving around the room. And his voice is low and dangerous when he tips your jaw til he can look you in the eye and draw a straight line from his mouth to your mind. </p>
<p>
  <em>Ready, pet?</em>
</p>
<p>The game is the careful <em>not </em>saying what it is, the step by step avoidance of calling it anything at all. And when he drops his files on your desk he still calls you <em>ma’am;</em> there’s just the serious competent coldness he shows to everyone, everywhere. </p>
<p>Except here. Except to you. But only in this room. </p>
<p>Here he rolls his sleeves and tips his head this way and that; here he calls the catechism down around your shoulders. </p>
<p>
  <em>Where are we?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>In a safe place. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Who are we?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Just you and me. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Why are we here?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Because we want to be. </em>
</p>
<p>Here station falls away; Walker becomes <em>August </em>and he towers til his face is cast in shadow high above. It’s ephemeral, it cannot possibly last,</p>
<p>(it’ll last until he tips his hand just that little bit too far, til he reveals all his cruel and murderous plans, but that’s a problem for later)</p>
<p>but here you are and here he is, and he carries you under with a practiced hand. His fingers are scarred and gentle on your lips; he says <em>suck</em> and so you do, and it’s so easy just to let him lead. <em>I’d like to hurt you, pet, he says. I’ve seen you shouldering so much strain. All that worry, little one, won’t you let me ease your mind?</em></p>
<p>And <em>yes, god, yes, I want it hard and cruel and hurting;</em> he hears your word and smiles. </p>
<p>
  <em>Let us begin. </em>
</p>
<p>He knows the silhouettes of all your business clothes; he knows exactly how high he can leave a mark. He toes that line because the separation is sacrosanct; if you can trust him in nothing else </p>
<p>(And you can’t, not really, not with all his schemes and secrets and if he sometimes idly thinks of spiriting you away that’s his business and his problem)</p>
<p>You can trust this: his hand heavy on you, pressing on your nape. Blunt nails trailing down your spine, digging deep into the meat of your ass. The careful positioning of your legs, the press of fingers on your back. And then he strikes. </p>
<p>And it stings, with an ache that creeps in after, blood flooding to your cunt in the wake of his strike, flesh pulsating and <em>good, that’s it, gorgeous. There you go. That’s better, isn’t it? Let your mind follow the flow of blood, let yourself bend to me. </em>He doesn’t speak a word about the outside world: no taunts, no mocking of your authority; this passes into holiness, this agreement that you have. He is calm and he is generous in his meting out of pain; his hand becomes a focus point, weighing heavy on your flesh. <em>Pretty pet. You’re doing well. </em>And he strikes at you again. </p>
<p>When your flesh is pulsing hot beneath his hand he deems you ready; on his palm is liquid need, shining and slick. <em>You want it hard; you want it rough. You want to scream yourself hoarse until you’re clenching on my cock, and pet. I’ll give you that and more. I’ll make you weep and wail for me.</em> And so he does. He takes his cock in hand and slaps it once, then twice against your cunt; the leather chair is warm beneath your face and its rolled arm holds your hips just right for him to drive in deep. </p>
<p><em>That’s it. I know it hurts. Too much, too fast, just like you need. Focus on your cunt, my pretty thing. Feel the stretch, the sting from my hand. Feel how fucking wet you are. </em>And he grabs your hand to pull it back; he guides your hand to your center, to where he disappears inside. He holds you there to feel his thrust, to touch your joining flesh where every movement pulls your skin so tight. </p>
<p>
  <em>Feel that, pet? Feel how your body struggles to accept me. How strong you are. You’re taking me so well. Like this I’m so deep, stretching you so wide. I know. It feels like you’ll be torn in half. And yet. Feel how you open up to let me in. </em>
</p>
<p>August’s breath is harsh and panting in your ear; every word comes at the cost of concentration but there’s an urgency beneath it all. And for half a shaking breath he slips; he shows the wild and fearful beast within. This will be the last time, and the realization pulls your heart out through your chest, even as he’s digging fingers into your mouth, as he’s pressing and holding and biting at your nape. </p>
<p>And when he comes he makes a sound you’ve never heard before: it’s not a sob and not a cry or growl, but something deep and wounded. It’s the sound of wolves in snow, of empty beaches, of wide meadows where the sky is just too close. And though he guides you to your climax as he always does, it leaves a hollow ache. </p>
<p>(<em>Did you hear what happened to Walker?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah. It can’t be true, though, right? The things he did? He always seemed so—)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I can give you til tomorrow. Somehow your voice is steady. Then I’ll have to call the hounds. </em>
</p>
<p>His hands freeze their motion on the buttons of his shirt; he looks to you but doesn’t deny anything; he won’t insult you in that way. <em>Pet. </em></p>
<p><em>Whatever this is. I have to believe you know what you’re doing. That there really is no other way. I know. I know. You can’t tell me. And I don’t want you to, because then I’d have to stop you. Just. Come back to me alive. </em>And again he doesn’t answer, but when he leaves, he pauses only for a moment. He doesn’t turn around.</p>
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